Of what I saw I loved these:

• Casino Royale
• Borat (if you haven’t seen it, go now — it demands an audience to be enjoyed)
• The Prestige (clever story and acting — especially David Bowie — marred only by the charmless Scarlet Johansson)
• Curious George (snicker if you like; the storytelling, the artwork, and the wonderful soundtrack made it a thoroughly enjoyable and moving experience)
• Snakes on a Plane (best movie of the year? No — best movie ever. As a comedy.)

I think this is just rip-snortingly funny. And yes, I will be buying the inevitable CD. (The ringtone is already available!)

I’m rewatching Season One of Rome, this time with elder son Lex, to bring him up to date so that we can watch the second season together. We’d both rather still be watching The Wire, but we’ll have to wait another year for new episodes.

The second episode of “Rome” tonight got me thinking about focus — because in one scene I couldn’t help noticing where it wasn’t.

Legionnaire Lucius Vorenus has just returned from eight years of serving Caesar in an endless war in Gaul. He has barely reacquainted himself with his wife, Niobe (pictured above), when he has to sit in adjudication over a young herder petitioning to marry his 13-year-old daughter. Camera shots ricochet between the beleaguered young man and the unhappy father, who isn’t pleased by the notion of his daughter marrying a drover whose family lives in a house formed from cattle dung. Ultimately, though, he agrees.

And then comes what’s missing: A reaction shot from the daughter, who so ardently wants this man. So why don’t we have it? And why, instead, do we have a reaction shot of a clearly thrilled Niobe?

Because, as this storyline develops, the daughter and her intended aren’t that important. This scene is part of a story being developed about Vorenus and Niobe, which ends the season in a tragic twist. We’re in on the secret; Vorenus is not. Judging by the end product, I take it on faith that the editor (as well as, clearly, the writer and director) knows that Niobe is the point and not her daughter, and that’s why Niobe gets the reaction shot.

My chosen medium is the theatre. While we don’t have a camera, the issue of focus is always important. Good stage movement (blocking) does more than just get actors to where they have to be; good stage movement is also motivated by characters’ desires, and doesn’t steal focus from the principle figure in the scene.

It’s the same with writing the scene. If too many characters come in all at once, or too many different topics are raised, or inappropriate stage business pulls the eye, there’s no way to focus the audience’s attention. Chaos erupts. The human brain demands focus so that it can make sense of all the information flooding it. Without that focusing process, the unfiltered data would overwhelm us. That’s called confusion.

If as an audience member you pay attention to what you’re supposed to, you should be able to follow the story. If you stop to think about what you’re not supposed to be focusing on, you can see the man holding the puppet’s strings. Lex wondered how I saw the twist ending of “The Prestige” coming. It’s because I wondered why, when the one magician’s accomplice was a major character, we were never formally introduced to the other magician’s collaborator even though he was shown in many scenes — and once I asked that question, I knew the answer: Because we weren’t supposed to be.

Directors direct the actors. Writers use focus to direct the audience.

I’ve been seeing this print campaign for Citibank for months now and I can’t decide if this is a strange gay couple, a bizarre father and son, or a master and slave. Maybe all three.

More recently, I’ve decided that this ambiguity is on purpose. We don’t need to know who they are. We don’t need to know the full details of the lad’s suffering. We just need to know that because the depraved squire has a Citi PremierPass credit card, he can do any damn thing he likes.

As a foe of colonialism and slavery, I won’t be getting a Citi PremierPass credit card.

Here’s something they haven’t covered on Jericho: How to power small appliances with tomato soup.

Great interview with David Simon, co-creator of The Wire, the best show on television.

This is the back cover of this week’s New Yorker — and that’s my friend of 14 years, actor (and now model!) Mark Chaet.

On Friday I was at the car dealership and before getting out of my car looked around to see if there was anything I needed to take in with me: my wallet, my keys, etc. On the passenger seat was the new New Yorker, which had arrived that day, turned face down. Otherwise I probably never would have seen this back cover. I looked over, and here was my reaction: “That looks like Mark Chaet. That is Mark Chaet. No, I’m seeing things. Looks like him, though.” Then I picked it up and held it closer. “That is Mark Chaet! It’s Mark Chaet!” (Around our house, everything “Mark” is either “Mark Chaet” or “Mark Stephenson” because we have two actor friends of long standing named Mark.)

I called him on my cellphone and said, “Mark Chaet, you’re famous! Even moreso! I’m here at the dealership buying a new car and I just saw you on the back of The New Yorker!”

Here’s the kind of guy Mark is. His reply was, “You’re buying a new car? Cool! What kind?”

This ad campaign (including its accompanying television spot) is cleared to run for up to a year in places like The New Yorker, Wall Street Journal, and other major print media, so we’ll be seeing a lot more of Mark. Our family has grown used to seeing Mark Chaet on TV, in movies, on stage, in real life — but I never expected to be holding his picture in my hands while I’m in bed. And now he’s on my blog. Congratulations for him — but if I roll over in the middle of the night and find him next to me I’ll know it’s gone too far.

You decide. Take the quiz here.

This would have come in handy at MOMA’s Dada show earlier this year.

It used to be that an apology counted for something.

“Just say you’re sorry,” we were told as children. And then it would be over.

Now, though, even the most seemingly heartfelt of apologies is meaningless. For the hecklers who were the poor victims of his inflammatory attack, nothing short of hiring a news-camera-chasing lawyer like Gloria Allred and demanding millions in settlement will suffice.

So Michael Richards is either angry, or racist, or both. Who was really hurt by his outburst? Himself. And in subsequent interviews, he’s been the picture of genuine contrition. He’s been banned from the Laugh Factory. He’s been vilified by fellow comics. If his career isn’t over, this is at least a very costly setback.

None of that is punishment enough. No, he must pay the hecklers and their attorney, and it won’t be cheap.

If or when he settles up, will that be enough? Or will it take more? Maybe we could find a pretext for sending him to prison. Surely someone’s civil rights have been violated. I know I’m outraged by having seen that video — maybe he should have to send each of us ten bucks. And then have to clean up after Thanksgiving dinner.

I hope this goes far, far into trial, that both sides wrack up enormous legal bills, and that the final judgment is on behalf of the plaintiffs to the tune of: one dollar. Then both sides will learn not to be greedy, hateful, and stupid.

Why could Richard Pryor say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? Because it was in the context of Richard Pryor’s angry blackness, and Michael Richards is Jewish.

Why can Chris Rock say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? Because, again, it’s part of Rock’s act — and evidently not part of Richards’.

Why can George Carlin say “nigger” and Michael Richards isn’t allowed to? After all, Carlin’s “act” is how genuine he is — when he says “nigger,” he means it. Michael Richards isn’t allowed to because of what he means by it — a hateful slander — and here, the fact of its genuineness is what will shadow his career.

Attacking people by type doesn’t get you far any more.